A few nod. JP rubs his jaw. Dani smirks.
“What we’re tryna learn here is—” I draw a tiny line at the cap, “—how to crack the thing just a quarter turn. Let some of that hiss out on purpose. Not the whole bottle, not on people we love, and not turning to self-destructive habits to run away. Opening it with purpose and gently letting out the built-up fizz…something like a breath, a walk, texting your safe people, a meeting with your sponsor, maybe a cry, a set of push-ups, singing your heart out in your car, or even telling the truth in a room like this without faking it. On purpose is the key. You have to come at your shaken bottle with intentions not to let it explode. You also have to learn to recognize when you’ve been shaken up and need to be careful when you’re going to open up.”
I let the room sit with that for a moment. “So here are the two questions I want to throw at the group. One, what are your main ‘shakes’ right now? Two, what’s one hiss you know works for you, or might work even if you’ve never tried it?”
Mariah jumps in immediately. “Midterms are my shake.” Some people nod in support. “And my hiss is…um, journaling and putting my phone in a drawer. And honestly, I changed my background to a picture of my sister because it makes me less likely to do the thing I’m trying not to do when I see her face staring back at me.”
“Stacking your environment,” I say. “That’s smart.”
Theo goes next. “My shake normally is…boredom, hiss is playing basketball. If I sweat enough, I forget about needing something else to make me feel useful and about any anger I was feeling.”
“Body first, brain later,” I tell him. “Good.”
We roll like that for a while, trying to be gentle, and occasionally getting raw or a little funny. West speaks up to say, “Walking at night when it’s quiet,” and Dani glances at him and says, “Same.”
I’m about to pivot us back toward the whiteboard list of practical things to try…when the doorclicks—
She slips in, trying to stay invisible. Dark sweatshirt, backpack on, hair up, face beautiful. She doesn’t look at anyone but Ms. Ricks, walking over to her at the sign-in sheet.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly to Ms. Ricks. The room has gotten quiet, waiting for our new guest to join, so we all catch the exchange. “I got stuck finishing an assignment.”
“No worries,” Ms. Ricks tells her with a smile. “You’re always welcome. Grab any seat.”
She walks over to the circle like she’s trying to silently apologize for interrupting, sliding into a chair closest to the door. She looks up at everyone, nodding as some people wave at her, and then her eyes find mine and freeze. I compose my face and remind myself to keep breathing.Don’t make a scene with your face.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice the same as it was before she walked in. “Welcome. We’re glad you’re here. You can um, just listen tonight. And if you want, we all normally introduce ourselves. Our check-in is your name, color you’re feeling—green is good, yellow is uneasy, red is pretty closed off, craving number if that applies to you, and a win you’ve had this week. You can also pass if you don’t want to.”
She swallows and then nods. “Yeah, that’s fine. Um. I’m Lydia.” She waves lightly at me from her lap. “Yellow. The cravings are probably about a 5 since today has already been so long. And…um, I wrote two paragraphs of something pretty heavy today in therapy. That feels like a win.”
“It is,” I say, trying not to let my face say more than it should right now. “Thanks, Lydia.”
Lydia wraps herself tightly in her sweatshirt, the way people do when they don’t want much attention on themselves.
We go back to the analogy I was showing, like nothing crazy just happened to my heart rate, knowing she’s here now.
“Alright,” I say, capping the marker. “I’m going to share a little on why I picked this topic, how this looked for me, and the difference it made.”
I look over at Ms. Ricks. She gives a subtle nod that says, “Model, don’t monologue. Make it relatable, not preachy.” I turn my body to face everyone and pretend I’m not suddenly very aware of where Lydia’s chair is.
“I came from a home where emotions were considered private…you didn’t talk about the negative ones. We’re very loud in our love, but we weren’t always loud with our grief. When my sister died, I thought the only way I would keep my sanity was to be the strong person who held everything together, even though on the inside I was falling apart, begging someone to notice.” I take a second to breathe and try not to filter my prepared speech because she’s here. “I started drinking in college because it turned the volume down for a while,” I say simply. “And then I kept drinking because I didn’t know how to turn the volume down any other way. I lived inside the party scene on campus because it was the only thing louder than my thoughts. That turned into a lot of coke lines and a lot of self-destructive behaviors that only shook my bottle up more. I never let anyone touch my bottle or even know it existed…because that was how I made people believe I was okay. The metaphor that helps me is the soda bottle,” I say, tapping the drawing. “When I white-knuckled and acted like I wasn’t shaken, it didn’t make it stop…I just sprayed out on the people who loved me when something triggered me. And when I ripped the cap off, hoping I’d ‘get it out,’ I made a mess I had to clean up later, and I never felt any better in the long run…I just became a flat soda and repeated the cycle over and over again.”
I look up at the imaginary list in my head and pick something small. “What started to change things for me was tiny release valves. I also learned how to tell the truth with people I trusted instead of hiding.”
I let my eyes skim the circle and land on everyone for a beat. A scan, not a search. When my gaze crosses Lydia, I give her the same beat I give everyone else. No extra. My chest does the ache thing, where I want to stop and give more of my attention to her, talk to her like no one else is in the room, but keep it moving.
“So,” I finish out. “Between now and next week…pick one hiss to practice and tell one safe person what it is. No heroics. Just the quarter turn.”
We open it back up to free discussion for a while, and then close out with a breathing exercise led by Ms. Ricks. Everyone murmurs their goodbyes, and the room slowly shifts into theafterpart. I tidy handouts because it keeps my hands from being weird while talking to a few passing people walking out.
Ms. Ricks slides up next to me. “You’re a natural, Bash,” she tells me, smiling. “You held your own well.”
The nervous tension in my body drops a little with that acknowledgment from her. When I look back up, a couple of people are left, still talking to each other. I see Lydia at the edge of it all, standing around like you do when it’s your first time somewhere like this. When you want to connect, but don’t wanna wave your arms for people to notice you.
I catch her eye. Lift my chin toward the lobby for her to come over. Then I make myself go slower than my impulse wants. The hallway is quiet, and I just stand there watching and waiting for her.
“Hey,” I say, sticking my hands into my back pockets. “Can I…have like two minutes with you? Outside?”
She hesitates, then nods.
